Water Lily
by Marzannar
Summary: No one knew the prize of telling Lily old stories and a fairy tale gone wrong. Harry is about to know that some things are better off hidden away. post-DH, LlP/LV, past(onesided)-HP/LV


I've got absolutely no idea where this came from but I know that somehow Lily-luna/Voldemort pairing has struck me down. Heck I don't even know if it can be classified as a pairing but now it will be. Bellatrix anyone?

**Pairing: **Lilyl/Voldemort, former-Harry/Voldemort

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_**Water Lily **_

Harry tells her how he fought many battles. Many, in which he was injured either physically or mentally, and how the scars still run deep in his heart.

Lily is five years old and she listens patiently her father talk as Albus and James play Quidditch outside even though it's winter evening. The thin snow blanket on the ground is hardly white and Lily wonders if this substance called 'blood' would show any clearer on the fine frost powder that will descend with cold November. It is highly likely that it will cover a few specific spots but the rain of rags and upcoming spring of the next year's March will do their job and cover - _dissipate_ - the trail if the foxes' and rabbits' footprints won't.

A crash and a whoop later James' laughter is heard and Ginny rushes outside, shouting and waving her wand. Lily adds later that it is highly likely that certain sort of rollicking is likely to cause the same string of events. She turns to face her father sitting in an armchair.

"But dad, how could the Dark Lord die when he was immortal?"

This shows how child she truly is or then she would have been listening more attentively, when the man was brought into the tale. But a five-year-old hardly cares about that. Harry is caught off guard for a moment before he swoops Lily from the floor into his waiting arms, a smile gracing his well aged face and Lily laughs.

"Because he was a scared and a frail old man who just feared death."

And Lily thinks she hears melancholy in her father's voice when he speaks of this_ 'Dark Lord_'.

No one usually likes to talk about the snake man (because that's what he truly was, according to everyone they know) except their father (and - _like_ - is used very freely here) and when they ask something about _him, _they're usually rewarded with a frown and a litany of curses for the man. Afterwards Harry apologizes for his crude words and starts speaking to Lily, whose persistence is without an equal. No one else even dares to speak the Lordship's name, even though her father tells her that he's no more. That _dad_ killed _him_. Actually (and Harry makes sure to always add this when Ron isn't nearby) his, Harry's, other wand killed Voldemort. Lily thinks it's a little weird for a war hero to be so reluctant to accept his own kill, especially since uncle Ron is always telling things about Harry that Lily thinks are a little exaggerated according to the dumbfounded face Harry wears in the Christmas gatherings in the Burrow almost every year. But in the end, her father petitions that it wasn't him; It was the wand he threw into the deep gulley under Hogwarts' bridge and she wonders if it's still there for the taking - The Elder Wand.

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Lily is hastening her steps with her soft teddy bear in a fierce hug and goes into the kitchen one night. She's hungry and wants her chocolate chip cookies before going to sleep, not caring whether they actually give her holes to her teeth. The last upper tooth on the right side is hurting already but her mother's challenging air is waking the children's competitiveness. Albus already tried the night before and Lily swears that she will be The Potter and get the coveted prize.

She pokes the hurting tooth with her slick tongue and afterthoughts entertain her.

Rubbing her eyes, Lily pushes the squeaky chair right next to the counter and reaches out with her small hands. She hopes it'll be enough to reach the damned jar.

The jar breaks as it slips past her hands and crashes onto the floor.

Just like the Lord's precious things that broke. Just like Voldemort, who broke and then disappeared, never to be the same again. She frowns at the excuse of a jar. How dare it.

"Honey, what are you doing?" Harry rubs sleep from his eyes and Lily's gaze shifts from the floor to her father in panic. She hadn't heard his footsteps. Her flaming red hair going past her shoulders, her maroon eyes looking back and forth. She says quickly:

"I broke it. I'm sorry."

"I can see that. You should go to bed. I'll fix it." Harry yawns and takes Lily up from the chair and lowers her to the ground. Harry waves his hand and the jar is fixed but when Lily is skipping up the stairs, she wonders why she forgot to ask for a bedtime story and why her father is up when all the others are asleep.

Mommy doesn't tell bedtime stories and Lily thinks she hates them.

For a minute, Lily thinks she sees something spark behind her mother's eyes but for a child that emotion is too complicated to place or describe (even most scholars would be at loss for what is human emotion even?).

Ginny's face is bitter and she eyes her child with disdain. What went wrong in the upbringing? It's like a paradox since their family is very much like that of the dead Potters'. Ginny's aware of the resemblance and she finds it disturbing that something so similar to Lily Evans - as her daughter is no doubt - wants to know anything about the man that murdered her grandmother. Dumbledore's Army disbanded, not a lot of people talk about the war. In her time, she hadn't even known there had been the First War. Crimes and constant fear and distrust make poor subjects of table conversations.

She thinks about Fred and her heart bursts. No, she doesn't want to talk about this.

"Why do you always want to know about _that_?"

The question is so full of dislike, so full of hate that it makes Lily draw back. The lights coming from outside, the bird's chirping and it all comes down to a meaningless circle of life and death and how you can be hated in both worlds. It's a list of grey and pain and the world is tinted upside down as the routines tend to not change. How dear Ginny does nothing but hate and how her dad is so full of regret as if he hurts all the time but, then again, he smiles when he's with Ginny and his kids. Lily has seen Harry's face, when he speaks of the Dark Lord, and now she has seen her mother's face too. Lily can tell even now that she hates _him_. Ginny hates _him_.

"I think his story's fascinating- worth looking into!" she quickly corrects, seeing the red flag waved in front of her. Connecting the tips of her fingers, she speaks.

"It's like a fairy tale gone wrong. There are dragons and princes and princesses and good and evil. Why do you hate this, mother?"

Somewhere deep, deep, deep down there's loathing for her mother. Deep down the fierce nature of Lily blooms and she scrutinizes her mother and looks at her. Why can't she be like dad? Wait. Why should Ginny be like Harry? Mom and Dad are different and it's nice like that. Typical for a married couple, even. Masked hate boils through her natural but weak mental barriers and reaches Lily's mind.

Lily screams.

(Perhaps it's impossible for the young generation to understand something about this war heroes pain after all.)

Harry bursts into the room while Ginny frantically tries to stop Lily's tears and finally she shrieks the name that gives Ginny full authority to lock her into her room for the rest of the day. (_Don't hate my favourite character!_)

Harry told her of the diary, made of blank pages; of the locket of Slytherin; of the ring of Death; of the golden cup; of the diadem tempered into something anew in the maw of a fire lion; of the loyal Naga and finally of himself. _(But they're all gone, all dead and rusty and they're not coming back. Daddy's rusting with them and he's in pain - the red corruption reeking like the destroyed metal of the locket. Voldemort's giving Harry pain, he's giving himself pain and __**he**__ cackles. But even __**he's**__ rusty and somewhere far, far away and neither dad nor she can reach __**him**__. Even though she'd like to.)_

That night Lily sleeps with Harry. Safely tucked under his arm and warmth spreads through her body and she smiles.

"Daddy tell me about him," Lily whispers. Ginny squeezes their shared blanket, her back to them and tries to choke back her tears. '_Fred_...'

Harry is quiet though he does pet his child's small back the others are asleep, he reaches for Ginny's hand and squeezes it.

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><p>These stories poison Lily's mind. For an eleven-year-old<em> (Yes she has gotten her letter and yes she's in Gryffindor. A lion instead of a Snake or then she's the Snake among Lions. Which is it?)<em> They are so beautiful, so simple and yet so complicated and harsh. Lily sniggers as she brings her bear closer and the crimson hair floods down to the floor. It reminds her of blood instead of autumn leaves as her father says it does. It's something beautiful and she should be proud of it and Rose jealously winks at her as Lily sends yet another boy galloping back to his mother's hem. She should be proud of her skin _(but there__ are no scales_), she should be proud of her features that bring happiness to all _(But oh, they're very much not like __his__ at all and she might as well be a different person.__)_

Lily is very juvenile in this regard.

The Line becomes blurry as she steps into the Entrance Hall and feels some sort of building force, magic, sweep past her into the crannies and nooks of the castle; willing Hogwarts and emptying it in the same way it has already done to Lily.

And her father's voice is not here _(Shush Lily...he's not here. He can't get you when I'm here. I'll protect you from the nightmares. Shush now...)_ and instead she feel claws grip her throat and the killing curse is whispered into her ear. Lily sees scorching red eyes peel her skin and her mind until only bone and the heart are left behind_. _

_(And he hates her. Voldemort hates love and compassion, hates pity above all else and he's jealous of her life. Angry that she's alive instead of him and that Harry's kids are alive instead of Nagini and him. Voldemort''s hate is a black fiendfyre and a suffocating ocean when it sweeps past them and she can tell he hates her father and that he's alive. That Harry's children are alive instead of him who is so dead.__)_

Where art thou, Dark Lord; Where art thy body, livid and restored?

"Daddy, again," Lily whispers and bares her arm. How...perfect the Dark Mark of the serpent lord would look there. How the black would contrast her sweet mandarin skin that smells of drizzle and forest and adders that creep under her mind barriers.

Because it's him. It's always Voldemort that's standing behind her and now Lily understands why her father _likes_ her so much more than Albus and James.

Harry Potter does not discriminate anyone. Not even the last official Death Eater that died in France, 21th of August, 2014. He is very discreet about these things, you see.

It's not _he's_ n_ot here _but rather, _because he's here. _Because he's here, Harry feels compelled to tell her of his heroic deeds and how Voldemort finally disappears. He's taunting the Dark Lord through Lily so that it would make them both feel more alive (_For one cannot survive with the other or without the other)._

There is melancholy in her mind and sadness creeps into her limbs. She seems like an old widow and the teddy bear is abandoned in a dusty corner in her bright blue room.

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><p>"Daddy, did you know?" Lily asks when she's fifteen. She's knitting and reading at the same time by the fireplace, head resting against her father's tights when Harry is contentedly watching telly. Nothing can disturb Friday's telly hours at this point in life. Not even if some of Albus' potions do explode upstairs and shouting ensues on James' part. Yes, the only thing left to do is turn the volume sky high and hope the smell of burned vinegary Nirnroot doesn't do tricks and put anyone's nose out of commission for weeks to come. .<p>

"Hm?" Harry's other hand is playing with her locks and she smiles.

"I love Voldemort." Lily whispers and the hand stops. It's quiet for a while and the TV is the only thing that is creating noise. Lily looks over her shoulder and looks at her father, her Harry. It seems like he has stopped breathing. Horrified green eyes _(Avada kedavra! Please not Harry!) _look at her as if they need to confirm whether he heard right. In other words, he is a fine example of a British young man bearing witness to something that will not leave the living room.

"What?"

Or at least nothing verbal ever will.

"He's kinda like a role model. Something to be striving towards to." _And maybe wake him up from the dead. _Lily blushes a bit, the locket of Slytherin _(beyond repair and no one is living inside any longer_) shines more brightly than it has done in years. She stole it from her father, from underneath the floorboards of his room. It rested there with all the other Horcruxes that Harry has hidden from the ministry (_No wonder they never found them. The person leading the search is the one who hid them)._

Her first crush was her father. Her second crush was the-man-who-must-not-be-named still after all those years. After Harry's not answering, Lily jumps up and takes her muffler with her. Harry's eyes follow her as she skips out of the hot room. The television is switched off and Lily can hear his thoughts.

_´So easy for a school girl to fall in love with a murderer she's never met.´_

He makes it sound so unfortunately stupid and misguided. But is it not easy for you dear father?

Harry doesn't even touch Voldemort's original wand that rests in his desk drawer, untouched (_even though the ministry is searching for it. But they can't find it because Harry stole it from Voldemort's corpse so long ago,- right after everyone else had run towards them in the final battle)_ but not a single speck of dust is on it. It probably feels wrong to stare at his own wand and then take a look at its brother, who is feeling neglected as it hasn't cast any spells for over a decade even though Harry has tried to use it when he has lost his own wand for a day or two.

The Yew is waiting for something.

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><p>When Lily is seventeen, she has probably gone mad with onesided affection. No one can know that for sure but the way she handles the Dark Arts books that she secretly reads tells more than words. Harry's regret is pushing him down. He regrets telling his daughter about Voldemort. Regrets telling her of the Horcruxes and the battles. He regrets her but still loves her. The way he loves Ginny and the way he thinks of Voldemort. The world is tinting grey again and Harry hears trains' whistles in his nightmares although the never ending abyss right behind Lily is telling them both that this is a choice she has to make alone and the train station right in front of her is very inviting in its blandness. She's in the middle. Hanging off from her love and beliefs, from fairy tale knowledge and Voldemort, who sits in the train station, mulling over his losses, eyes burning but only as embers or maybe he has already forgotten the battle, the great fire, the grey and black colors and Harry. Mostly Harry.<p>

His hate is gone, for nineteen years it has been, and he is currently in something between tolerance for his wounds and boredom and empty space in his chest where the hate used to be. The infant under the bench screeches and Riddle from the diary is clutching his chest in pain, benches away from the snake man. The rest of the trinkets are abandoned somewhere else but not on tracks and Lily, when she realizes this, is not so sure she can find them all. She needs her father to complete the puzzle as he's the last piece. Always the last. Always.

_("Daddy, do tell a tale. A tale of dragons and the Dark Mage."_

_"Only the first, fourth and seventh year have dragons," Harry remarks.)_

The books on her lap look like they want to run away and Lily shuts them. Her eyes ablaze with fire. For she's going to do something her father couldn't and she's going to be remembered. The Dark Lord's going to praise her and the itching fake of a Dark Mark she made with a harp can be made real, when the bone wand touches her arm. When the Dark Lord will live again - even if she has to murder the whole magical population of Britain. The red hair remains stained with crimson and old necromancy as Lily sighs and relieved laughter escapes her. She feels like this is her personal ritual passage to the next level, to help her become an adult; to accept that this is what she will devote herself to. It's really not that different from a seventh year's career choice, she hums and blows a stray lock of hair away from her face where it tickles her cheeks and nose.

_Tell me a fairy tale gone wrong._


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